Espresso Self by Jonesn
by MeetTheMateContest
Summary: Once upon a time a beautiful peasant girl met her Prince Charming and fell deep into instalove. Yeah … That isn't this story.


**Title:** Espresso Self

 **Summary:** Once upon a time a beautiful peasant girl met her Prince Charming and fell deep into instalove. Yeah … That isn't this story.

 **Pairing:** Bella/Edward

 **Rating:** M

 **Word count:** 4892

* * *

There's something about New York at four in the morning. When the streets are empty and the night finally sits still in the city that never sleeps.

It's only quiet for a moment. Just one single moment before a delivery truck stops in front of the bakery across the street. And in that moment, I'm not Isabella, jaded neighborhood barista. I'm just Bella, creepy people-watcher.

The brakes squeak, and I perk up when a cloud of white powder escapes the back doors, rolling right into the delivery man's face. He coughs, and I wonder if he has an HMO or PPO or any kind of insurance plan at all.

The alarm on my phone sounds and he looks up into the shadows. I needlessly lean back. The busted street light keeps me out of sight where I like to stay, snuggled up with my blanket and a healthy dose of imagination. I bet he has kids. Two of them. One boy, one girl. And yeah, definitely some sort of insurance plan. Has to with two kids to take care of.

With one last sip of crappy, off-brand coffee, I reluctantly climb back through my balcony window, dressed and ready to go. When I arrive at the coffee shop, Sue's already there. She's got my apron on, her long, black hair tied up in a hairnet and the first batch of muffins baking in the oven. For having such a lackluster job, I sure do have the best boss in the world.

"I thought owners were supposed to reap the benefits of their business. Go on perma-vacations and stuff." I wiggle my fingers in the direction of the batter. "Not do businessy things."

"Oh, is that how it's supposed to work?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure there's like a law or something."

Sue scoffs. "Wouldn't that be nice," she says and points to the counter. "Can you hand me that dipper right there? I washed the blueberry off and forgot to grab it."

"Sure, but it's not a dipper. It's a scoop, remember?" Sue gives me a look like she doesn't want to hear it. I hold my hands up in defense. "Just sayin'. God forbid we get a repeat of the last time Vic heard you call it that." The fiery red mohawk isn't the loudest thing to have come out of his head. I sure as hell don't want to be around if he ever hits that high note again.

Sighing, Sue reaches out. I hand her the utensil before heading to the front to set up, just like every other morning. And just like every other morning, Ms. Myers comes knocking on the window, five 'til six. Smiling, I wave and let her in, not having to ask what she wants. A lukewarm cup of tea with two slices of lemon and just a dash of honey. My easiest order of the day.

My morning drags on from there with customers old and new piling in and out. There's a backstory brewing for each one of the asses filling the purple, faux-suede seats. Which, by the way, are a bitch to clean.

"What about that one there? What's his story?" Sue's son Seth asks, leaning up against the counter beside me.

Glancing at the guy in the pink Polo and penny loafers, I tap my pursed lips. "Let's see ..." Awkward is his middle name. I cringe when he goes to fist bump his friend but uses the hand holding his drink, crushing the cup and spilling the contents all over himself. "Well, the guy's clearly a narc."

"You think?"

"Oh, yeah. Look at him. He screams outsider who weaseled his way in and probably by accident. People find that kind of absentmindedness thing endearing, funny. Ya know?"

"Yeah, I can see that."

I nod. "His father was killed in the line of duty by a drug dealer, the same drug dealer that's dealing to the kids today. He's out for revenge. The awkward thing is just an act."

I squint in his direction. "And I can see right through it."

Seth and my fun's put on hold when a group of obvious tourists pour in.

It's the fanny packs. Dead giveaway.

A few of them sing along with me when my favorite song plays over the radio. The other customers—too-cool natives—look at us like we're crazy. But whatever gets me through the day, I say.

By the time Rose shows up for the afternoon shift, my back is spasming and my feet hurt and I'm more than ready to go home.

"Thank God you're here. My spine feels like it's about to shoot out my ass."

Rose crinkles her nose. "That's a nice image."

Untying my apron, I try to hand it over so I can get the hell out of there and sit down, but she holds up her hand to stop me.

"Hold up, Bella. Shit," she says under her breath. "Can you handle this next customer? Royce just showed up and I really need to talk to him. Please? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?"

Sighing, I pull the apron back over my head, and Rose thanks me with a squeeze.

"Yeah, yeah. You owe me, sister non-Christian. You hear me? Next!" I yell a little louder than necessary. The music switches from my eighties to today's hits, which makes every order I fill after that seem more and more obnoxious.

Decaf soy latte with an extra shot and cream.

Nonfat frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce.

Triple venti, half sweet, nonfat caramel macchiato, and can I drizzle the caramel over the top in the shape of a butterfly because yeah, I'm the freaking Picasso of coffee.

I scowl at Rose's backside the whole time I'm putting in orders and drizzling what—I don't care what that little girl says—definitely resembles a butterfly.

A pretty girl walks by and Rose grabs Royce's chin to jerk his head back to face her, and never in my life have I been more thankful to be childless and single.

"Next!"

"Kiss my arse." A fancy male voice demands.

"Excuse me?"

My attention shifts from Rose to the guy standing in front of me. Neck to toe, he screams serious business with his pressed gray suit. But the copper coif and pair of Ray-Bans nesting on top of his head says nothin' but a partay. His cell phone is glued to his ear. For his sake, I hope he's talking to whoever's on the other end of the line and not me.

"Is there something I can get you?" I say to try and get his attention, and he holds up a finger.

"Yes. Hold on, Ben. Get me a grande chai tea latte, three pump, skim milk, light water, two percent foam with just a spritz of cinnamon," he orders without a glance my way.

I choose that moment to dip down and grab a packet of cups from below the counter just so I can roll my eyes. What kind of self respecting man says "spritz"? "Name?" I ask when I bounce back up. My blood boils when he brings the cell back up to his ear and resumes his conversation as if I'm not even there.

"Sorry, Ben. Hold on a second. What?"

"Your name. I need your na—"

"No. Yes, I hear you, Ben. Hold on. Now sorry, you were saying?" he asks again, lowering the phone to his shoulder.

"What. Is. Your. Name?" I ask a little slower.

He does a small doubletake, torn between everyday human interaction and snuggling with his beloved mobile device. I internally roar when he holds up his finger again and puts the phone back up to his ear.

Grabbing my marker, I nearly poke a hole through the side of the cup when I write whatever comes to mind. I don't have time for this. Orange Is the New Black starts streaming _to_ -day and I have to get home _to_ start watching it.

I happily pass the cup along to Paul, who has long taken over for Seth, and hand over the apron to Rose before stomping off. The work day is saved however when the next order is called just as I walk out the door, a huge smile spreading across my face.

"Order for Huge Douchenozzle! Huge Douchenozzle, your order's up!"

...

"Two words. First word," I say, and Tyler nods. He winds up for a pitch, but I stop him with the answer. "Pitch Perfect! The answer's Pitch Perfect! God dammit, Tyler! Now, get away from my window!" I glare at where he kicked the corner out of the glass last week using the same damn theatrics. I'd ask the landlord to replace it if it weren't creeping up on the first of the month and I weren't already three months behind on rent. Besides, it's been warm out and a little fresh air never hurt anybody.

I choose that moment of depression to take a break from the fun and games and take the three steps into the kitchen, only to be dragged into one of Rose and Lauren's always titillating conversations.

"Ask Bella," Rose says then turns to face me. "Wasn't that guy the other day kinda hot?"

 _Like in a douchenozzily sort of way?_

"Totally."

"See? I told you."

My brain goes as numb as my hand when I stick it in the freezer to grab a tray of ice and I start to regret inviting everyone over for my nobody-knows-it's-actually-my-birthday-and-I-want-to-keep-it-that-way celebration. All I can think about is how my three days off are over and who knows if I even had a job to crawl back—on my hands and knees begging for forgiveness—to. Sticking it to rude customers isn't usually my style, but I just couldn't help myself with the one that was hot, but in a total douchenozzily sort of way.

...

The next morning, Sue beckons me into her office to "discuss a few things." Pulling up a chair, I lace my fingers together before resting my hands on my lap.

"Did you call someone a huge douchenozzle the other day?" she starts right out of the gate.

With an exaggerated frown, I shrug my shoulders. "No. I didn't call anybody anything," I tell her in all honesty, because I didn't. "Just wrote it on the cup."

"Jesus, Bella."

"What?"

Holding her head in her hands, Sue looks up at me from between her fingers.

"I'm sorry, but he was acting like one, Sue. What the hell else did you expect me to do?"

Clawing her face, Sue groans. "I don't know!" Her arms flail out like a spastic air dancer. "Maybe not completely alienate the guy who's maybe, possibly going to be buying this place?"

I hit the back of the chair as if Sue's words bowl me over.

"Wait. You're selling the shop?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"But why?" I ask, my job my last concern. If Sue's out, so am I. Who wants to work for some dick in a suit anyway?

Crouched over in her swivel chair, all Sue can do is look at me until I force a nod and head out front to set up.

"Hey, Bella."

I stop in the doorway and look back.

"Don't tell any of the others yet, okay? If I decide to go through with the sale, I want it to come from me."

The rest of my day drags. Seth seems to be attuned to my mood and stays on his end of the counter. I wonder if he knows.

All the orders are fairly easy and take no time at all. I use the downtime to sneak onto the computer and search for jobs.

 _Night-time nanny or energetic dog walker. Hm ..._

One sounds prostitutety, both exhausting. And neither remotely doable at this time in my life.

Staring past the monitor, I can feel my eyes drooping. My nose is practically pressed up against the screen when someone clears their throat.

"Get me a grande chai tea latte, three pump, skim milk, light water, two percent foam with just a spritz of cinnamon."

 _Jesus, not now. Not with with this guy._

Chin in my palm, I glance up from under my lashes, trying but most likely failing to hide the disgust on my face.

"Sure thing." I grab up a marker, and he's already looking down at his phone by the time I straighten. "It's Douchenozzle, right?"

He smiles at his screen.

"That's Mr. Douchnozzle to you," he says to his thumbs as they beat against the keyboard. I fume as he tap, tap, taps away, uncaring of my annoyance toward him.

"So, Isabella." He squints at my name tag. "That's quite a mouthful. May I call you Bella?"

"No."

"Fair enough." He still looks amused, which I find highly irritating. "Can I at least ask you a question?"

Finishing up my doodle, I pass the cup along to be filled, and Seth chokes down a laugh. Feeling satisfied, I cross my arms over my chest.

"If you must."

"Alright, then. Tell me, do you enjoy working at this establishment?"

"Under current ownership, yes." As much as one can _enjoy_ working.

"I see."

 _Oh, do you?_ I internally mock all his properyness with snooty obnoxious laughter.

"And do you always wear such colorful clothing to work?"

The color in question is the red _Ovaries before Brovaries_ on my shirt. Looking down, I find Leslie Knope's face smirking right back up at me.

"I thought you said _a_ question."

"So I did."

"That's two."

"So it is." Pulling out his wallet, he tosses a twenty down on the counter before grabbing his drink. "Keep the change," he says as he turns away. He stops when he glances down at the cup.

"The likeness is uncanny, isn't it?" I say with a smirk of my own.

A small smile forms as he admires my work. Shoving a hand in his pocket, he toasts me then takes a sip, perfectly aligning his mouth with the tip of the blazer wearing penis I drew in place of his name.

...

"Bella?"

"Yeah, Sue?" I ask as I round the corner into her office. She openhandedly gestures to the chair, and I take a seat, lacing my fingers in my lap. "What's up?"

Opening her mouth then closing it, Sue rests her elbows on the desk in front of her.

"Did you ... draw a penis wearing a blazer on a cup and then give it to a customer?"

"I did."

 _Yep_.

I give a curt nod and Sue closes her eyes, once again raking her fingers down her face. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she let's out a windy, "Okay." She leans back in her chair. "Can I ask why?"

"Sure."

She gives me a look then sighs, rolling her eyes. "Okay, why then?" she asks, and I shrug.

"Last I heard you didn't want me using his name."

"Douchenozzle is not his name."

"I beg to differ."

"No. No differing. Douchenozzle is not his name. It's nobody's name."

"How do you know?"

"Bella."

"I'm just saying."

"Bella ..."

Raising my brows in lieu of further argument, I look away as I talk under my breath. "S'not like you know everybody."

"Okay, look."

I do as she says.

"I love you, Bella. I really do. Feel like you're one of my own. You drive me just as crazy. And if this deal pans out, I want to know that you'll be okay. I need you to be okay. Okay?" Sue stresses, and I suddenly feel a flash flood coming on. When did this conversation take such a serious turn?

"Okay."

"All right then." Swiping a hand across her cheek, Sue sniffs then stands to dismiss me. "Cool it with the erotically graphic artwork."

...

"What about her? What's her story?" Seth asks.

Absentmindedly flipping through the pages of my magazine, I answer without glancing up. "She grew up in an Indiana town. Had a good lookin' mama, who never was around," I sing along perfectly with the radio, and Seth bumps me with his shoulder.

"You suck."

I look over at him in shock. "Who told?"

Seth's smile is rotten. Balling up a napkin, he chucks it at me.

"Stop it or I'll tell your mother."

"Tell her what exactly? That you're trying to corrupt me in the most impressionable time of my adolescence?"

I turn to give him a look to let him know he's ridiculous when the doorbell jingles and somebody clears their throat.

 _I know that phlegm._

"You again?" I ask as I turn back to the counter.

"Now is that any way to greet a paying customer, Isabella?"

"Why yes, actually. It is."

 _Huge Douchenozzle._

Maybe not the best, but it's still a way.

"Touché."

Cue the internal, hoity-toity laughter.

"So, what is it I can get for you today? The usual?" I ask, attempting to be nice when I remember Sue's and my most recent conversation.

"Actually no, thank you. I think I'll mix it up a bit. Maybe just a soda water with a slice of lime."

 _Ooh, livin' on the edge now, aren't we?_

Attempt to be nice aborted.

"I'm sorry, maybe? Was that an order? It's just that you were really queer. I mean, not really clear."

The douche's face briefly flashes red like a stop light, and I think maybe I've gone too far. But then his phone rings and I don't feel so bad anymore.

"Better get that. We wouldn't want you to miss a call and malfunction or anything."

Holding his cell in the palm of his hand, he gives me a look as if he's debating answering, which is surprising and kind of makes me feel bad again.

"Go on. I've got your order. Take a seat and I'll even personally bring it over to you."

I turn away to give him privacy and fill a glass with soda water. Seth "accidentally" drops a slice of lime on the floor before invoking the five second rule. Dusting it off on his apron, he sticks it on the rim of the glass.

"If I'm not back in thirty seconds send the search party."

Waiting on tables isn't exactly the norm in this _establishment_. I feel awkward walking through the throngs of chairs with people in them. So, of course he chooses the table farthest away from my safe place. AKA, the counter.

He has that phone nestled between his shoulder and cheek when I sit the glass in front of him then turn to head back. Grabbing my wrist, he stops me.

"Join me, won't you?"

Looking down at my other overtly feminist T-shirt, I pull at the hem to help hide what I'm truly feeling. Which is a thousand little butterflies twitching to death in my stomach.

 _Let go of my wrist before it melts and then I melt and all that's left of me is a big melted puddle of goo!_

I'll have to mop myself up off the floor later tonight.

"Gee, I don't know, Mister. I'm not really dressed." I deflect with yet even more ill-timed humor. Story of my life.

 _Ugh._

"You're wearing clothes, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then you're dressed."

"So I am."

"So then, sit."

Defeated by his wit, my ass hits the chair and he finally stops touching me.

"You don't like me, do you?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, do you not?"

"I do not."

"So, I'm right. You don't like me."

"I don't. Wait. What?"

 _Did he just mind trick me? What_ was _this word magic?_

"It's fine. Not many do once my company swoops in to save the day. It seems keeping a job has some sort of ill effect on people. You should be thankful. That is, if you get to stay."

"I'm sorry." Leaning forward, my boobs smoosh against the table, and he sneaks a quick glance down my shirt. "Are you threatening me?"

"No. Never."

"Are you sure? 'Cause it kinda, sorta sounded like you did. I mean, what is this? Some sort of ploy to get me into bed just so you'll 'swoop in and save the day'? What are you? Some undiscovered breed of flying weasel?"

"Excuse me?" Loosening the knot of his tie, he clears his throat. "I think you misunderstand."

"Oh, so you weren't just now trying to sexually harass your way into my pants?"

"Jesus, no," he says, lowering his voice and looking around for any possible eyewitnesses. I have to admit, seeing him squirm is extremely satisfying.

"All right then. But I'm watching you." I gesture with my fingers, leaning back in my chair.

He slightly relaxes once I stand, which just won't do. "And no, I will not make out with you!" I say loudly for good measure, making sure he's good and uncomfortable before heading back behind the counter.

...

Sue's face down on her desk when I walk in the next morning.

"Sue," I whisper, not wanting to disturb her—or talk about what happened yesterday. "Okay. I'm just gonna ..." Reaching for the pile of envelopes under her forehead, I give them a little tug and Sue sits straight up.

"Are you trying to kill me?" she asks, peeling an envelope off her face. "Is there some reason you want me dead?"

"No. Of course not, Sue. Where is this coming from?" I feign ignorance, and Sue just looks at me until I cave and confess my sins. "Look, I'm sorry. Okay? But I can't stand the guy. He's just acts so self-righteous with his suit and stuffy Irish accent."

"He's British."

"Whatever he is. It's the worst!" I refrain from stomping my foot and scrunching up my face. Damn him and that accent and what it does to my vagina.

"Well, you better get used to it, missy, because you're going to be hearing a whole lot more of it."

Saddened, I plop down in a chair. "So you're selling?" I ask, and Sue frowns, handing me my check.

"We close tomorrow."

...

The great thing about Central Park is I can walk it if I'm happy or sad, if there's rain or shine and it always gives me the same peaceful feeling.

Unless I happen to bump into the man who's taking over and destroying everything I hold dear.

I'm slightly put off by his sweat bands and running shorts. But it's definitely him coming straight at me from ten o'clock.

"You," I accuse him of ruining the sanctity of my park.

"Me," he says as he passes by. Turning, he jogs backward then in place.

Of course he's one of those types. And jogging with a Bluetooth, no less. I let out an internal scream.

"You know, my life was fine before you and your phone came along. I enjoyed my job. I didn't feel judged by my T-shirts all the time."

He glances down at my breasts that just want to have fun-damental rights.

"You're probably going to enforce some sort of predictable dress code. Like, white dress shirts and black slacks or something, right?"

"Actually, no. That isn't the plan."

"Oh? Well then, what is the plan? Taking our jobs and giving them to your new and improved employees? Will that make it easier to reform with your stepford makeover?"

"No, not at all."

"Really."

"Yes, really. And if you weren't so hard-headed you'd have realized long ago that I'm interested in the shop for the exact opposite reason."

"What do you mean?"

"There's no uniformity. It's rich in character. Your form-fitting shirts included." Gesturing to my person, he seems flustered but recovers quickly. "Tell me, Isabella. Do you have insurance?"

"No."

"Well, do you want it?"

I perk up at the possibility of an affordable health plan.

"Keep talking."

"As it stands now, Ms. Clearwater is unable to afford most of your salaries. That will all change when I take over. Not only will everyone be able to stay on staff, they'll have medical, dental, vision. There will even be paid leave for illness or injury."

 _Paid leave_ and _insurance? Am I drooling?_

I do a quick shoulder check just to make sure.

"Within reason, of course," he makes sure to add, and I gesture to agree. Like, of course.

"Everyone starts with a week's worth of vacation time. Tell you what." Placing one hand on his hip, he points the other toward me. "Join me for dinner later this evening and I'll make it two."

I squint at him.

"Didn't I already warn you about the sexual harassment thing?"

"You did."

"Okay, so ..."

"So, I don't care."

"Wait. You don't care that I could potentially sue you for all you've got, buy the shop myself and then have you deported back across the pond to jolly old England?" My attempt at an accent fails. "Just how much money do you have that you think you can buy me, huh? Do I look like I'm for sale? Is there a barcode on my head that only ridiculously rich douchenozzles can see?"

I don't give him time to answer before taking off past him and back the way I came. He reaches out, and I jerk my arm away. "Do me a favor and don't touch me. Ever."

"Isabella."

"Consider this my two weeks notice."

I ignore his disapproving plea and press on, disappearing into the crowd. For all I know, he doesn't follow, which is for the best. At least for him, anyway. I just recently purchased a new pepper spray.

...

It's weird not seeing Sue in her office or Seth at the other end of the counter. They say they'll still stay in touch, but it won't be the same. The Upper East side might as well be a million miles away.

"Tell me you're not still angry with me."

Chin in my hand, I refuse to look up.

"Who said I was angry?"

"Nobody had to say it, Isabella."

"I'm not angry."

"Then why not allow me to drive you home?"

He's been asking me that every day for the past two weeks, and every day I give him a different answer.

 _I'm not going home._

 _I have a ride._

 _I don't want you to know where I live, stalker._

You name it, I've used it as an excuse.

"I don't like that suit."

"This suit?" he asks, and I look up high enough to see him pat the front of his jacket.

"Yeah. It's too business. And I'm more of a casual kind of girl." Obviously. Just look at my shirt.

I'm surprised when he walks away without another word. It's the easiest I've gotten rid of him the past two weeks.

The rest of my night goes a little too fast for my liking since I've stuck to my guns and start the new job on Monday at the bakery across the street from me. It has insurance, great hours and, best of all, no more five-day-a-week subway rides. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to start making my rent on time.

Wiping off the last table, I look over my shoulder when the doorbell jingles.

"We're closed, ya know?" I say, pointing to the CLOSED sign.

"I know the owner."

I huff a laugh. "Yeah, me too. Real douchenozzle, isn't he?"

"The worst."

Straightening, I turn over a chair then stare at him for a moment before crossing the room. I start at the Converse on his feet, working my way up the pair of dark jeans to settle on his shirt.

"Is that …?" Grabbing the flaps of his blazer, I rip them open to reveal a corporate dick. "Is this penis wearing a tie? And lookit, he's even got a cell phone stuck to the side of his head. Aww ..."

Admiring the busy phallus, I don't realize I've taken a step closer to him until I smell his cologne.

"So, is this casual enough for you?" he asks in that accent of his.

Internally sighing, I pat down the flaps of his blazer, flattered by how hard he's trying.

"It's a start. But we've still got a long way to go."

"Does that mean you're finally going to let me drive you home?" he asks, and I look up at him for the first time in two weeks. It's hard not to feel responsible for the dark circles under his eyes.

"Only if you feed me first."

Flipping the lights off, I interlock our arms to lead him out the doors.

"You know, I just realized I never told you my name," he says as we walk in synchronized steps down West Broadway.

"Oh, no. I know your name. Called it from the very first moment we met, Douchenozzle. Don't you remember?"

"Ah, how could I forget?"

His smile warms me quicker than the breeze blowing against our backs. Loosening my grip on his arm, I take his hand, letting the street lights lead the way to who knows where. But seriously though, it better be somewhere to get some food.

* * *

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